I take that back.
There are things I cannot even utter. About times when I've been little more than raked earth, half returned to the ash from whence I came and looked up with eyes blind to wonder and saw it anyway. There are things I know solely because I experienced them in the arena beyond language.
This is where story plays is most fantastic role. It's where we all go to find ourselves tucked between the words. Story is our wailing wall, our dear diary, our ebenezer.
I've done real soul-baring in my writing, but not in a way that is easy to find. Not theme, or subject matter. Not plot. My soul shards are tucked away between the words, present, but hidden from plain view. This is the way it must be for me. Every writer is different. For some, it must be front and centre, painful as that is. Why? Because it must.
For me, I must tuck it away. Will that change? Maybe. I don't pursue it, instead I let it pursue me. A writer never travels to the place she intends.
The most bare writing I ever did was a poem I wrote last year. Isn't that just like poetry?
With Thanks to Bill Holm
by Bonnie Grove
bring the mirror to your face,Words lined up in particular form
it isn't your reflection as much as it is
the face you thought you'd already forgotten.
I've been taken up by my hapless collar and
pulled through the rake of divorce;
tendons separating from bone.
Bone and marrow finely defined.
Later, I leapt
foolish footing from a cliff's edge I hadn't
noticed, or pretended not to see. I didn't think, only
felt the fall and blessed its decent. The
ragged bits of me weightless in the movement;
the sensible thing, the priority of self
preservation and gave it up
for a guy with blue eyes, his hapless collar tented at the
back. His raked form lovely to my missing eyes.
All these years
for the sake of the heat of the hand in the middle of the night.
The one that has been there for years. Will be.
The heat that could melt a stone.